him.
Once the church had emptied, Sir John closed the door. He pulled up one of the benches and sat opposite Athelstan. He flinched in distaste as Bonaventure, who seemed to adore the stout coroner, came to rub his body against his fat leg, arching his back in pleasure, tail high, eyes half-closed.
‘I don’t like cats.’
‘He likes you, Sir John.’ Athelstan got to his feet, put his hands in the small of his back and stretched. ‘But I don’t like parish councils.’ He sighed. ‘You’re here on official business?’
‘You can read my mind, Brother. His Grace the Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, Regent of the kingdom, uncle to the King, requires our presence at the Savoy, immediately.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ah well.’
Athelstan went to the door and then started back as a tousled Godbless trotted into the church, the little goat skipping behind him.
‘What on earth?’
Godbless crouched down, putting one arm over the goat, which turned and nuzzled his unshaven cheek. Sir John quickly described what had happened.
‘I can’t keep it!’ he wailed. ‘The Lady Maude has a horror of goats.’
Athelstan caught the pleading look in his eyes.
‘What’s its name?’
‘The four-legged goat’s Judas. The two-legged one’s Godbless.’
‘Why Godbless?’
‘Godbless is a pickpocket. He attends Mass just before the communion when the kiss of peace is exchanged. He grasps your hand, kisses you on your cheek and, as he whispers “God bless”, tries to lift your purse.’
Athelstan crouched down beside the beggar man.
‘Are you a thief, Godbless?’
‘Not a very good one, Brother.’
Athelstan gently touched the goat. ‘And this is Judas?’
‘I likes him.’ Godbless spoke up. ‘And he likes me. I have no place to live either, Brother.’
‘Friars are supposed to like animals,’ Sir John offered.
‘We are all supposed to like animals, Sir John, and this goat is a most handsome fellow. And so are you, Godbless.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Godbless, I can’t offer you a place in my house, there’s barely enough room for one.’ He thought of the overgrown cemetery, his constant pleas to Watkin and Pike to clean it up. ‘But you can have the death house in the cemetery. When a corpse is put there for the night, you can sleep in my house. I’ll leave a note for Benedicta the widow woman. She’ll set up a bed and, perhaps, a stool. The place is clean, scrubbed and doesn’t smell.’
Godbless’s face creased in pleasure.
‘In return you can look after the goat. It can graze in the cemetery. You can also keep an eye on what happens there.’
Athelstan felt a glow of triumph. He was always suspicious about how his parishioners used God’s acre, be it Pike or Watkin in their drinking or the amours of Cecily the courtesan. He fished in his purse and brought out a coin.
‘Take the goat. You’ll find some rope in the death house. Let the animal graze but make sure that it’s on a long lead, fasten it to one of the hooks in the wall.’
Godbless nodded and stared down at the coin.
‘Then go down to the pie shop. It’s at the end of the alleyway. Ask Merrylegs for one of his freshest pies and tell him that you have joined our parish.’
Godbless sprang to his feet but Athelstan grasped him by the arm.
‘And we can’t keep calling him Judas, can we? There was another apostle, one who didn’t betray Christ; he had a name similar to Judas. Ah, that’s it, Thaddeus!’ Athelstan dipped his fingers into the holy water stoup and sprinkled both Godbless and the goat. ‘I rename thee Thaddeus, goat of this parish!’
A short while later, after they had taken Moleskin’s wherry along the Thames, Sir John and Athelstan disembarked at the quayside near the palace of the Savoy. They were greeted by retainers wearing the livery of John of Gaunt. They were let through the cordon and up the pebble-dashed path which led to the gates of the Savoy. More soldiers were on guard. Inside the vaulted gateway, which led into the gardens, knights and archers wearing the royal livery took Sir John’s war belt and led them through the spacious, exquisitely laid-out gardens and into the perfumed coolness of the palace.
Athelstan gazed round in wonderment. The walls, floors and ceilings were of white stone and he thought it was pure marble. On either side of the galleries hung exquisite tapestries from Hainault and Flanders, brilliant flashes of colour depicting scenes from the Bible and antiquity. Such opulence grew more apparent as they went deeper into the palace. The floors were of shiny wood, which smelt richly of polish, and almost covered in great thick woollen rugs of different colours. Statues stood in niches, small portraits of former kings and princes hung in thick, black, wood-edged frames on the walls. Soldiers were everywhere. They guarded staircases, the entrances to chambers and thronged about them as they waited to be taken up to the first gallery where the Regent had his own chambers.
Athelstan recalled Sir John’s monologue as Moleskin had rowed them along the Thames. How popular resentment against the Regent was growing, particularly in the shires and around the city: his tax-collectors, in particular, were being attacked, their demands refused. Even in the House of Commons, protests had been drawn up; the members demanded a reform of government and a thorough investigation into the war against France which had resulted in a recent truce due to the intervention of the papacy.
‘We live in hard times, Brother Athelstan.’ Sir John had shaken his head and looked out across the river at the ornate, high-pooped Venetian galleys, the war cogs of England and the great, fat-bellied merchant ships from Lubeck. Around these swarmed wherries, bum-boats, barges and fishing smacks.
‘All this could end,’ he had mournfully declared.
‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan had asked, just wishing Cranston would keep his voice down. Moleskin, although bent over the oars, always listened intently to the conversations of his customers. Cranston had taken a slurp from his wineskin.
‘London’s unprotected. We have a garrison in the Tower. Gaunt and the great lords have their retainers but, if a rebel army marched south, they could take London in a day.’
‘Rebels?’ Athelstan had asked.
‘Peasants — the Great Community of the Realm. They are traitors.’ Sir John had sighed. ‘But many of their grievances are just. The peasants are taxed to the point of rebellion, they are tied to the soil. Their duties are fixed, their wages are paltry. If they can produce a leader, then God help us all.’ He nudged Athelstan. ‘And, if you read my treatise on the governance of the city, Southwark is our weakest point. The north is defended by walls but, once they sweep into Southwark and take the bridge, London will be at their mercy.’
Athelstan understood the coroner’s disquiet. He knew some of his parishioners, particularly Pike, were members of the Great Community of the Realm and, although he had never said it, Athelstan believed Sir John was the only royal official able to walk unharmed through the narrow alleyways of Southwark. The coroner had a reputation for honesty while his friendship with the parish priest of St Erconwald’s also afforded protection.
‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan?’
The Dominican shook himself from his reverie.
The young knight on the stairs was not one of Gaunt’s foppish retainers. Athelstan recognised a fighting man, in his dour, drab clothes, the buttoned sword belt clasped round his waist.
‘Why bless me, if it isn’t Sir Maurice.’
Sir John made the introductions. Athelstan shook the young knight’s hand. He took an immediate liking to this knight with his blunt features and honest eyes. A soldier, Athelstan concluded, a man direct in speech and action. As he followed Sir Maurice up the stairs, Athelstan reflected on how contrary John of Gaunt could be. A silken courtier, a man born to plot, Gaunt was still the son of Edward III, with the strength and the courage to attract warriors to him as well as the young fops and dilettantes. The latter constantly preened themselves, drenched their
